Chapter 11 #2
The stadium went wild. The pep band blasted a chaotic song, students were jumping up and down, and the team swarmed Rhys near the corner.
When the pile-up cleared, Rhys broke away from his teammates and jogged toward the bleachers.
He didn’t look at the student section cheering his name.
He looked straight at me, raised two fingers to his chest, and tapped his jersey right over his heart, pointing straight in my direction.
“Oh, please,” Kelcey muttered under her breath, crossing her legs with a sharp snap. “So dramatic.”
My face was burning hot, but my chest felt absurdly light. I sat back down, trying to control the stupid smile threatening to pull at my lips. He wasn’t really doing it for me, I knew that. He was doing it for the sake of Kelcey noticing him.
By the time the final whistle blew, Crofton had won 3-1, with Rhys scoring two of the three goals.
It was the first time in my life I’d cheered for them.
The team paraded off the field to a standing ovation, disappearing into the locker rooms to change, while the rest of the crowd slowly filtered out toward the parking lot.
Landon came out quickly, finding us right away, then the four of us hung around near the stadium gates waiting for Rhys. The air had turned bitter cold, the wind cutting through my oversized sweater, and I shivered, tucking my hands deep into my pockets.
“You cold, Ainsley?” Landon asked, glancing down at my bare legs.
“I’m fine,” I lied through chattering teeth.
“Here,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned just as a heavy, maroon Crofton athletic jacket was draped over my shoulders. It was lined with soft fleece and smelled overwhelmingly like Rhys— fresh laundry, cut grass, and faint sweat.
Rhys stepped up beside me, his hair still wet from the post-game shower, wearing a clean grey hoodie and track pants. He reached out and zipped the jacket up to my chin himself, his knuckles brushing against my throat.
“Good game,” I told him.
“Told you I don’t lose.” He turned to Justin and Landon, clapping them on the shoulders. “Where are we going?”
“Gold Plate Diner,” Justin said, looping an arm around Kelcey’s waist. “Everyone’s heading there.
” My eyes tracked Justin’s arm around Kelcey and I was once again amazed to find that I felt nothing over it.
Not an ounce of jealousy. Kelcey flicked her gaze to Rhys, though, like she was checking to see if he was looking.
But he wasn’t. When I looked up at him, I found him smiling down at me.
“Great,” Rhys said, his hand dropping casually to the small of my back, guiding me toward the parking lot. “Let me drive Ainsley. She looks like she’s about to freeze to death.”
Kelcey glanced between us, her expression unreadable in the dim light of the parking lot, before turning and walking off with Justin.
Rhys led me to his SUV, and even though driving with him shouldn’t be something I viewed as a pleasant activity, I was so relieved not to be driving anywhere else with Kelcey that I actually felt comfortable as I sank into the leather seat.
Rhys immediately cranked the heater without asking, turning the vents in my direction so the warm air would blast on me.
I refused to show him just how much it helped.
He didn’t seem to care. He kept one hand lazy on the top of the steering wheel, his knuckles still raw and red from the soccer game.
Every time he shifted gears, his forearm brushed against the heavy fabric of the oversized Crofton varsity jacket I still had on.
(Was I meant to keep it on all night? Was that what girlfriends did?)
By the time we walked through the diner’s heavy glass doors, the place was already a war zone of high school royalty.
Half the varsity soccer team was crammed into the back corner, their raised voices competing with the hum of the flickering neon signs and the greasy sizzle of the flat-top grill.
The air smelled of burnt coffee, fryer oil, and cheap peppermint air freshener.
“Montgomery’s here!” Landon bellowed from a middle booth, waving a French fry dripping in gravy like a baton. “Bring the hero some water, he’s gotta stay hydrated for his post-game interview!”
A chorus of whistles and table-thumping erupted.
I instinctively shrank back, my shoulders hitching, but Rhys’s heavy arm slid over my back, trapping me firmly against his side.
His thumb hooked casually into the fleece collar of the jacket, pulling me flush against him as he steered us through the narrow aisle.
The heat radiating off him was borderline suffocating, but I forced myself not to pull away.
“Knock it off, Landon.” Rhys slid into the high-backed vinyl booth and dragging me down right beside him.
The booth was horribly tight. To fit everyone, Rhys had to sit pressed against me, his outer thigh a solid, warm line mapped directly against mine.
Across the laminate table, Justin had his arm slung lazily over the back of Kelcey’s seat.
Kelcey sat with her legs crossed, her manicured nails tapping a fast, hypnotic rhythm against her glass.
“Nice of you to join us, Ainsley,” Kelcey said, her voice dropping into that razor-thin register of fake warmth that instantly set my teeth on edge.
Her sharp eyes swept over me, lingering on the giant Crofton varsity jacket completely swallowing my upper half.
“I see you’ve really embraced the Crofton look.
Though... aren’t you worried someone from Parkhurst is going to see you? ”
The table went quiet for a fraction of a second.
My chest tightened. This was the test. Kelcey was picking at the edges, looking for the seam in the lie we’d spun five nights ago at Justin’s party.
If I looked uncomfortable—if I acted like I was being held hostage in Rhys Montgomery’s clothes—the whole facade collapsed right here on a sticky vinyl booth.
Before I could freeze, Rhys shifted. His arm moved from my shoulder, sliding down my back to settle heavily on my waist. He tilted his head down, resting his temple near mine, his breath warm against my ear as he played his part with terrifying ease.
“She’s fine, Kelcey.” Rhys’s voice laced with a possessive confidence that made my stomach do an unwanted somersault. “She was freezing. I’m just looking out for my girl.”
My girl. The phrase rolled off his tongue like he’d said it a million times before.
I forced myself to lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder as if I did this every single day. I reached under the table, placing my hand casually on his thigh. I felt his muscle flex like he was surprised by the touch, but his expression remained entirely cool, entirely unimpressed.
I smoothed my hand slightly down his leg, exaggerating the touch just enough for Kelcey to notice. Rhys didn’t flinch, but I felt a subtle hitch in his breathing before he casually rested his hand over mine, his heavy fingers lacing through mine under the laminate table.
Kelcey’s smile faltered for a microsecond. Her eyes dropped to where our hands were hidden, then flicked up to Justin. Justin’s smirk faded entirely, his jaw tightening as he stared down at his glass.
Score one for the fake relationship.
I kept up the act, leaning my weight against Rhys’s broad shoulder, letting my gaze drift lazily around the neon-lit diner to project the image of a happy girlfriend.
That was when my vision locked onto the front entrance. Sitting in a small two-top booth right beneath the harsh, buzzing glow of the pie display case was a man in a slate-grey peacoat.
My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it plummeted off a cliff.
My dad was laughing. He was reaching across the salt-shaker-laden table, covering the small, manicured hand of a woman with long, sleek blonde hair.
She tilted her head back, laughing at something he said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
As she shifted, her heavy winter coat slipped off the back of her chair, revealing the undeniable, rounded curve of a late-stage pregnancy bump.
Hilary.
The ambient noise of the diner—Landon’s loud retelling of a missed referee call, the clatter of silverware, the high-pitched squeak of sneakers on linoleum—bled into a static hum.
I hadn’t seen my father in person since last July.
Not since the afternoon he packed two leather suitcases into the trunk of his sedan while my mother stood at the kitchen sink, staring blankly into a cold cup of tea.
He hadn’t come to my ballet showcases. He hadn’t come to my birthday.
The last time I’d heard his voice was three months ago, calling to tell me with breezy, detached enthusiasm that I was going to be a big sister, and that he ‘really hoped I could find it in my heart to be happy for them.’
My fingers reflexively dug into the fabric on Rhys’s thigh, my nails practically cutting through the fabric.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t blink. My eyes were glued to my father as he reached across the table to tuck a loose strand of blonde hair behind Hilary’s ear—a gesture he used to do to my mum every single Sunday at the breakfast table.
If he turned his head three inches to the left, he would see me. If Hilary looked up, she would recognize me instantly—she’d met Imogen a million times, and because we were identical twins, there would be zero doubt.
I didn’t care about the Crofton sweater anymore. I didn’t care about the rivalry or Kelcey or Justin or the ridiculous revenge scheme we were pulling off. A cold, suffocating wave of pure panic slammed into my ribs: He’s going to walk over here. He’s going to try to talk to me.
“Ainsley?”
The voice was low, sharp, and right at my ear. His thumb stopped moving against my hand. His entire posture shifted from casually relaxed to intensely alert. He felt the sudden, unnatural stiffness that had taken over my frame, the way my grip on his leg was cutting off his blood flow.